The Widow with the Two Mites

Here much and little shift and change,
With scale of need and time;
There more and less have meanings strange,
Which the world cannot rime.

Sickness may be more hale than health,
And service kingdom high;
Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth,
To give like God thereby.

Bring forth your riches; let them go,
Nor mourn the lost control;
For if ye hoard them, surely so
Their rust will reach your soul.

Cast in your coins, for God delights
When from wide hands they fall;
But here is one who brings two mites,
And thus gives more than all.

I think she did not hear the praise--
Went home content with need;
Walked in her old poor generous ways,
Nor knew her heavenly meed.